At the market, the lychee stack so naturally
When you hand me the grocery bag
I grab where you grab still warm
And i take the residual heat home
With the receipt.
I occasionally enjoy overloading the
washing machine and contemplating its struggle
While bleach and detergent douse my wounds
And its esophagus.
In the morning, we unwrap each other
And I pressure-test my lips
On your hip that has nascent prickles
At the market, the lychee stack so naturally.
My pillow looks strange
After you sleep on it i cannot reshape it
Your negative remarks of permanence
At the vigil, they wash everything
but we remain stained
stacked so naturally.
About the Author
Frank Carellini tends to poetry as a mechanism to grasp the fleeting enormity of life, nature, consciousness — reaching with numbing fingers to grab handfuls of an abyss.
raised in brooklyn, ny.
frank has recently published poetry in communion and tiger moth, night picnic, last leaves, NART Mag.
educated in business and biochemistry, he builds life science startups that make the world a bit better.
